


Object Lesson

by Unsentimentalf



Series: The Sherlock/John/Moriarty series [6]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Sherlock might take drugs but he'd never lose control like that. He'd never hurt you."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Object Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final part of this series. Thanks for all the feedback.

John tapped at the ground floor window twice, waited. He was about to try again when the curtains moved.

A finger to his lips, he waited for recognition, then gestured firmly behind him and backed up into the darkness. After a couple of minutes Lestrade came out of his front door, wrapped up against the rain, and walked back to meet him in the dark side road.

"John! Bloody hell, man, we've been looking for you everywhere! Is Sherlock with you?"

"No." Sherlock was still missing then. A small hope extinguished. "I need to talk to you, Greg, somewhere warm and dry and away from cameras." His jumper was already soaked through.

"The flat's clean of bugs. Had a couple of chaps from the security service going over it two days ago."

John snorted at that. "Not the flat."

"OK." He could tell Lestrade was studying him, wondering what the hell was going on. "I know somewhere."

Somewhere was a small terraced house ten minutes' walk through the back streets. The woman who answered the door was dressed up and startled.

"Greg! God, I thought you were my date come early! Is Paul all right?"

"Far as I know, not that I've seen him for a bit. I've got a favour to ask, Gwyneth. Can I borrow your spare room for the evening? John here and I need to talk and we can't use the flat or the pub."

"Or the station?" She frowned at John. "I'm done with police business, Greg. And I'm going out."

"Please, Gwyneth. It's a big favour. I'll owe you one."

"You already owe me considerably more than one, Greg Lestrade." She sighed. "Go on then. Coffee and biscuits in the kitchen; wash up after yourselves. Don't let me find you here when I get back. And if your friend's not got a coat then there's one of Paul's old ones in the wardrobe, and dry clothes in the drawers."

"Thanks, Gwen." Lestrade was smiling.

"Just go hide in the spare room till we're gone. I like this bloke; I'm not explaining a houseful of strange men away to him."

They sat on the bed in silence. John was just as glad of it. It had seemed simple when he'd planned this; he'd tell Greg everything, but now that it came to it he wasn't sure how he could.

The doorbell rang, the front door opened, and after a flurry of voices closed to silence. "Grab some clothes and we can go down. Want a coffee?"

"Please." John followed Greg downstairs. "She seemed nice. Ex-girlfriend?"

"What? Gwen? No. She was married to a friend of mine in the Force. They broke up some years ago but we've got mutual friends so I still see Gwyneth occasionally. I haven't been here since Paul left, though. You want somewhere where no-one will look for us, this is it."

John couldn't fault that at all. Lestrade was at least taking this seriously.

Greg had filled the kettle, was hunting in cupboards. "So where do I start, John? Where have you been, who are you hiding from or where's Sherlock?" He pulled down a couple of mugs.

"I'll answer them all, as far as I can. But first you can tell me what the security people are doing in your flat."

"That one's easy. Turns out Sherlock's brother's something to do with national security. He thinks Sherlock's disappearance might be related to his work, so we've got MI5 in on the hunt."

Greg was fingering the phone in his pocket. "You ought to be talking to him, John. He'd come out here if you don't want to go to the Yard."

"I'm sure he would," John said. "You want to know who I'm running from? Mycroft Holmes is top of the list. It's taken me five days to escape from his people. I'm not going near him again."

"Mycroft? That's not right." Lestrade looked confused. "He's been looking for you- both of you."

"He's been looking for Sherlock. He's known exactly where I was since Thursday afternoon. I can show you the place on a map if you like. Believe me, Greg. Mycroft wants to find Sherlock but he's not telling you anything like the truth."

"Top of your list, huh? So who else are you hiding from?" Lestrade didn't look convinced, not yet.

"Jim Moriarty. The police, I guess; even if Mycroft doesn't set you on me, there's the poor sod I mugged in Starbucks' toilets for the taxi fare over here." He paused, wondering just how honest he was planning to get. He paused too long.

"And." Lestrade wasn't unobservant. "Who's the one you don't want to tell me about?"

"Maybe Sherlock, I suppose. I really don't know what he's up to right now, Greg. The others I'm sure of." He took the fresh coffee, sipped gratefully. "I'm not intending to hide for long, though. I'm going to find them before they find me." He moved through to the living room in search of a chair and the other man followed.

"You think Sherlock's up to to something?" Lestrade shook his head. "Are you sure? We found his dumped phone, and yours, and signs of a struggle; there was a knife with your blood on and your ripped jacket, down by the river front. To be honest, when we heard nothing from anyone we expected the worst, though Mycroft insisted he'd be too valuable to kill. He didn't rate your chances highly."

How convenient. Had Mycroft ever intended to let him go? John couldn't quite figure Mycroft as a cold blooded killer of innocent bystanders, but then the man had made it clear that he didn't regard John as innocent. Maybe it had been no more than a last ditch contingency plan; he imagined that Mycroft was fond of those.

Still, Mycroft had faked a violent abduction scene for the police, and he could prove that. He guessed that Mycroft and those of his staff not currently receiving hospital treatment would be looking for him with a great deal of urgency right now. The shrill of Greg's phone didn't surprise him at all.

It was a long conversation, though Lestrade's side of it was unhelpful; surprise, disbelief and finally agreement. His eyes were boring into John's face as he talked.

Finally Lestrade hung up and there was silence.

"Well?"

"Seems John Watson and Jim Moriarty were tracked down to a warehouse just under two hours ago. Your men were heavily armed and in the resulting fire fight you both escaped."

John closed his eyes for a second, anger throbbing. "He's claiming I'm working with Moriarty?"

"It does explain how Moriarty got close enough to Sherlock to abduct him. And what he was doing in your flat when Sherlock found him. And, of course, why you were prepared to put up with Sherlock's idiosyncrasies as a flatmate, and to go rather further than that. And it certainly explains what happened at the swimming pool."

He looked tired and indecisive.

"I like you, John. I meant it about you being good for Sherlock. They say a good copper trusts his instincts, but if there's one thing that man's taught me, it's to trust the evidence and nothing else. I know Mycroft's credentials. He wants to find his brother. I can't see any reason why he'd set you up, get you out of the way, when you could be helping us find Sherlock. Want to help me out with that?"

John had imagined that explanations would be awkward; he'd not thought that Lestrade might simply not believe him. Too late now; only the truth and all of it would do.

Cut to the chase. He started to strip off his wet clothes, the pain as his shoulder twisted easily ignored now after a few days' healing. Half naked, he turned around.

"What the hell did that?" Lestrade had climbed to his feet.

"If Mycroft is to be believed, it's where Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes each had a go inscribing their initials during a heavy session of sex, IV cocaine and Rohypnol."

A silence. He turned around, started to pull the dry clothes on. Lestrade looked utterly floored.

"Do you believe that?"

"I believe most of it, yes. The sex- it's happened before. The drugs- I'm sure they were in my bloodstream. I don't remember how they got there. The knife- I want some explanations, Greg."

He pulled the dry jacket on, sat down. "Mycroft doesn't think Sherlock's been abducted. He thinks he's keeping Jim Moriarty's bed warm, and he desperately wants both of them found before they do something appalling for fun. More appalling. But it's easier to manipulate you into hunting them than it is to try and convince you of that, so he set up the kidnapping evidence and kept me out of the way."

"You did the same." Lestrade had sat down again, was watching him, face bleak. "Your Baker Street break-in. You screwed around with the forensics before we got there. Washing your fucking sheets, John. I gave that damn investigation top priority because I was worried sick about keeping you safe, and now you're telling me that you lied to me."

For exactly Mycroft's reasons. John grimanced unhappily. "Yeah, we did. I'm sorry about that. It was a real risk, though; it still is. The man's a monster."

"So that's what you're telling me that you and Sherlock do for fun, is it? Pick up monsters?" Greg's voice was soft, disgusted. John resisted the urge to tell the man to mind his own sodding business; he was the one who'd come to find Lestrade tonight.

"Sherlock doesn't do hearts and flowers, Greg. He doesn't do couples. What he does is Jim Moriarty with me there to watch his back, and I guess I pick up the crumbs. Except that last time what I picked up instead was an IV cocktail, a bit of mutilation, God knows what STDs, amnesia and a cute little farewell message from Jim. And Sherlock's missing. I need to find them."

"Real sob story. But I don't do domestics. Your boyfriend runs off with another man, it's your problem." Lestrade was thoroughly pissed off.

"This other man is wanted for murder and terrorism and kidnapping. Don't you think you might want to at least help me look?" He took a breath. "If Mycroft gets there first God knows what he'll do. He called an air strike over Essex last week. He's a lot more desperate now."

"You're claiming that was Mycroft's doing?"

"He was hoping to kill Moriarty. He missed by about five minutes."

"Sure." Lestrade was shaking his head, slowly.

He'd explained this wrong. "You're not getting it. This isn't just about what turns Sherlock on. They're fighting it out, pushing for weaknesses, both of them. There hasn't been a single moment when Moriarty's left himself vulnerable. If there had been, we'd have taken him out."

"So what are you doing here now?"

"i can't dodge Mycroft and find them, not on my own. I need your help."

"Right." Lestrade picked up John's discarded shirt. "Whose blood is this?"

"One of Mycroft's people, maybe two. I took a knife from the kitchen. I don't think anyone was seriously hurt."

"No? There's blood on your face as well and it isn't yours." He dropped the shirt, sat back in the chair.

"So I have two stories. One says that John Watson, who arrived so conveniently from overseas, who has stuck like a limpet for months to a man who no-one else can tolerate for half an hour, who has made himself so invaluable to Sherlock's work for no reason and no reward ; that John Watson has been working for Jim Moriarty all along. That when his cover was blown prematurely Watson decides on one last attempt to use his position to cause trouble by coming to me, cold and wet and forlorn and harmless, and sowing a bit of discord"

He sighed. "That's one story. Nasty, but it hangs together pretty well. The other is that Sherlock Holmes has been having rough sex and sharing drugs with not only you but in a threesome with a psychopathic murderer. Sherlock gets kidnapped by his new boyfriend and at exactly the same time you get abducted by Sherlock's brother, who turns out to be a second criminal mastermind prone to using the Special Forces to blow up bits of countryside without anyone noticing.

"It's only a few days since I told you about Sherlock and cocaine. Writing it into your fantasy really wasn't smart, John. Sherlock might take drugs but he'd never lose control like that. He'd never hurt you."

He was leaning forward now, eyes sharp on John.

"Can't arrest you, can I? There will be snipers by now waiting outside Gwen's door. I should never have brought you here."

"Bloody hell, Greg, listen to me!" John knew he'd lost. Lestrade was watching him as if he might attack at any moment. "I don't know that Sherlock hurt me. I don't know what happened. I don't remember. Moriarty was in control."

"Changing your story now." Lestrade shook his head. "Damn. I should have gone along with it, shouldn't I, Watson? I thought you'd be smart enough to spot it, but you really aren't that clever. God knows how you fooled Sherlock. I guess he just wanted to like you. You're bloody good at that, at least. We all liked you."

He stood up, walked to the darkened window. Spoke without turning round."What are you going to do now? Take yourself another hostage or just shoot me?"

"Will you stop being so fucking stupid! There are no bloody snipers, just me. No wonder you need Sherlock to solve your cases for you! Dumb fucking idiot!"

He dropped his voice, trying to stay rational despite his frustration and anger. "Look, I can't make you believe me. Just at least watch out for Mycroft. He thinks Sherlock's switched sides and he hasn't. That I'm sure of."

"No, he hasn't. There's only one traitor here."

Temper snapped. "Fuck you, then." John grabbed the loaned raincoat and stormed out of the house.

Lestrade would be on the phone straight away; he needed to get outside the cordon they'd throw up while they dealt with the hostage situation. Maybe, just maybe Greg would have second thoughts when they found he'd been alone. Maybe he'd at least question Mycroft's stories. Most likely coming to Lestrade had done no good at all.

He'd do this on his own, then. Somehow.

After the Essex debacle John had spent a late night with Google Maps and Street View, had finally traced the house that Moriarty had used in London. He'd intended to tell Sherlock next morning but Joanne Telling had arrived and he'd been preoccupied after that. Sherlock hadn't been taken there; no reason for him or any of the others to know its location. It was the only place that he could think of to start.

The taxi dropped him fifty yards away from the gated alley. He could see the red blink of the camera on the high wall trained on the gates. If he got over the fence directly under the camera he had a good chance of going unseen. An eight foot high fence wasn't going to stop him today. The spikes were more for show than serious deterrence but they were enough to hold the borrowed coat in place when it was tossed upwards, and both were enough to hold his weight as he scrambled up and landed with a roll that made his shoulder complain on the other side.

The square was silent. As he walked close against the neat hedges in the gathering darkness the house he was heading for came into view, just as a light turned on in the third floor.

The entrance to the underground carpark was gated again but this time with a full portcullis from roof to floor. Before he could move on engine noise had him pulling back into the bushes on one side of the carpark entrance. The car turned into the entrance and the gates parted. John stooped low and followed it through, then ducked straight behind a pillar. From there he watched two men, one familiar from his last visit, carry shopping bags straight into the lift. A great deal of shopping; several people were living here. For the first time he began to hope that he might have found what he was looking for.

The men closed the lift doors and John watched the indicator stop at the first floor. He needed a plan. For a second he contemplated starting at the bottom and working his way up but this wasn't an action movie. There were going to be several men in the house; they would have guns and CCTV and the ability to shout loudly on spotting intruders. He couldn't expect them to let him simply walk up behind any of them and chances were that none of them would make useful hostages for Moriarty's compliance.

The only hostage of any value would be Jim himself. The light had gone on in the library, and he didn't know the rest of the house at all, so he'd have to work on the assumption that Moriarty was there. He would be astonished if the house wasn't covered with cameras and the person supposed to be watching the feed wasn't doing so. Nothing that he'd seen of Moriarty's operations suggested anything but terrifying efficiency.

Speed over stealth; he'd make a run for it. Eight flights of stairs, a corridor, another at right-angles, through the waiting room, down the next short corridor and into the library, and hope that Moriarty's instructions about shooting at intruders were John Watson- specific. They should be; the man must know there was a chance that he'd get here. (Yes, of course it was a trap. John wasn't stupid, just desperate.) A bullet in the back from a minion was not, he hoped, in Moriarty's plans for his eventual demise.

He dropped the ripped coat, stripped off Gwen's ex-husband's jacket, retied his laces, and briefly regretted the absence of the kitchen knife that had let him hack his way out of Mycroft's place. He'd had nowhere to conceal it and he'd naively thought that finding Lestrade would provide a measure of safety.

The men sorting out the shopping might at least be slightly distracted; he'd lose that tiny advantage if he waited. Stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. Go.

John heard nothing but the sound of his feet as he took the stairs two and three at a time. He burst out onto the third floor landing; no-one, but as he turned along the corridor a bullet went past him, the explosion loud enough to shake the walls. He kept running, the ringing in his ears taking several seconds to ease off enough to hear the shouts.

No more bullets and he was through the waiting room, into the corridor, barely registering the man at the other end. Into the library. He slammed the heavy oak door behind him, turned long enough to turn the iron key, then leaned against it, panting, as he took in the contents of the room.

The gun first, small and aimed at his heart. Then the man holding it; Jim Moriarty, apparently just stood up from one of the leather armchairs by the fire. The other was still occupied; Sherlock, turned to watch John's entrance.

"Hi," John raised a hand to his flatmate, his breath slowing back to something like twice normal. Moriarty was coming towards him slowly, gun steady.

"Not," John told himself, "a bullet. Not from Jim Moriarty." He pushed himself hard away from the door, towards the man a bare six feet away. Grabbed the wrist holding the gun in that fraction of a second when the gun could have gone off and didn't, other hand coming up for a blow to the chin and Moriarty was unbalanced, was over backwards with John on top, wrists pinned.

Moriarty looked away from him, towards Sherlock. "I thought," he complained, "you'd found a petsitter. Yet here he is again. Call your animal off."

"I suggest that you back off, John." Sherlock's voice was deep.

"Following your suggestions hasn't been working out particularly well for me recently." John let go of the hand not holding the gun just long enough to smash his fist into Moriarty's face, then to take the weapon from the unresisting fingers. Someone was firing into the lock of the library door. "Cameras in here, Sherlock?"

"Over the door and one to your right."

"Mikes?"

"On the cameras. No extra ones."

"Good." He hit Moriarty again, feeling cheekbones break, rose far enough to turn the man over and to drop back heavily onto his thighs, a sudden memory of the last time he'd done that making him shudder. Then he pulled the right wrist back and put the barrel of the gun against the fragile bones, looked up to the camera over the door.

"I'll take his hand off and leave him alive to chase you down. Back off." A pause. " Ten. Nine. Eight." At six the noise outside the door stopped. "Thank you," he said politely and shot both the cameras out.

After the echoes subsided there was silence for a few seconds. Then Sherlock spoke.

"This is all very impressive, John, but it isn't actually helping us get out of here." John almost savoured the irritation in the man's voice. He'd been looking forward to this bit.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Did you think this was a rescue attempt?" He hadn't taken his eyes off the motionless man beneath him.

"Ah. And what exactly would you call it?"

"This is an information-gathering exercise. And this," he climbed to his feet and slammed the toe of his boot as hard as he could between the man's legs, waited for the scream to subside, "is an object lesson."

He dropped to his knees again, patted the curled-up and whimpering man's pockets, pulled out the phone and tapped a number in one- handed, didn't press dial. Then he turned for the first time to look straight at Sherlock.

"You and I are going to have a conversation."

And didn't he have Sherlock's attention now! The man was shaking his head slightly.

"You are infuriatingly proficient at precisely the wrong times, John. My brother was supposed to have you secured."

"That was your doing?"

"No. Just Mycroft's obsession with control. But you were safe enough there, I thought. Holding one man shouldn't have been beyond his capacity."

Sherlock sighed. "But no, you fought your way out of there, and into here. On your own, apparently. That isn't like you. Why not go to Lestrade?"

"I did." John was sour. "Mycroft got his story in first. I'm public enemy number two, right now. All Greg wanted to know was if I was going to shoot him."

"That wouldn't have improved your temper." A hint of a smile. "But here you are, and I suppose I shall have to deal with you. An information gathering mission, but you've rendered poor Jim incapable of telling you anything coherent, so you must want data from me. What's this conversation that you've risked your life for going to be about?"

"What do you think? I want to know what happened."

"After you passed out? Jim recorded his message and we left. Your pulse and breathing were both steady and Mycroft was sure to pick you up shortly; it was much safer to leave you there than to bring you along. Jim is remarkably unpredictable at times."

"I'm not so interested in after I passed out, Sherlock. I want to know what happened before."

Sherlock frowned at him. "You don't remember? Why wouldn't you... Hell!" He swung his hand round hard against the wall. "He lied to me! And I didn't pick it up! I was so irritated about the hypodermic switch, and his gloating- it was an amnesiac, not just a sedative. Stupid. Stupid. Which one?"

"Rohypnol."

"Yes, of course. So what do you remember?"

"Nothing definite past the van from the church."

"Ah. And what do you know?"

"Mycroft gave me a full forensic report. It's pretty good on the whole 'who did what' but a bit lacking in minor details like 'why the fuck'."

Moriarty whimpered loud in the silence and John kicked him in the ribs.

"Don't kill him." Sherlock sounded seriously worried.

"Why not?"

"The arrangements that he has in place are elegant and almost impossible to prevent. A lot of people could die if you take your revenge."

"A lot of people will die if he goes free. He kills people, Sherlock. It's what he does. He'll keep on doing it until someone stops him." There was blood bubbling between the prone man's lips. Probably from the broken nose rather than internal bleeding. He'd have to to do considerably more damage to finish the man off.

"Explanations, Sherlock. I'll decide what to do about him when I've heard what you've got to say."

"That shoulder's clearly not troubling you much. Any heart problems, breathing difficulties?"

"No. Keep to the point."

"This is the point, John." He seemed mildly irritated. "You came to no significant harm. This response might be considered excessive."

"It's not bloody excessive! I could have contracted HIV, for a start. From either of you. From the bloody needle, for all I know."

"Don't be histrionic, John. I have no infections of any kind, and if Jim was HIV positive then three quarters of the medical research facilities in this country would find themselves researching a cure. He's as careful about that as he is about any other risk."

"And yet there he is." John looked down at Moriarty, eyes closed, breathing fast. "Not looking so bloody careful now."

Sherlock snorted. "You're a force of nature, John Watson. No-one's plans survive contact with you for long."

"Tell me what happened."

"Did you know that you have blood on your face?" Sherlock licked his lips. Nervous? Maybe not.

"Greg mentioned it. Why won't you tell me?"

"Which would you prefer to hear? The version in which you're an eager participant in your own corruption or the one in which you're our helpless victim?"

He suspected that Sherlock was mocking him. There was an easy outlet for his anger right now; he saw Sherlock wince as his foot connected again with Moriarty's ribs.

"Will you please stop doing that, John! If he loses consciousness it's going to make negotiation rather difficult."

"Negotiation? I don't have any intention of negotiating. No doubt I ought to find this uncharacteristic concern for your fellow man touching but actually it just makes me want to puke. I don't care whether I was victim or participant- just tell me which."

"You care more than is rational, and the answer is both and neither. The details won't tell you anything meaningful about yourself, or me, or Jim, that you didn't already. I don't intend to discuss it."

Sherlock smug, superior and comfortable; John wasn't going to let him stay that way.

"Really? I suggest you rethink that. I don't need the gun to put you down there with him" And was that a hint of a bloody smile at that suggestion? His voice rose.

"I'm not playing games, Sherlock. I'm not going to wrestle you into the carpet and try to rip your clothes off. I'm going to hit you till you stay down and then break a couple of your ribs. And then ask you again. What happened?"

Sherlock was no longer smiling. "Very well. But you won't thank me for it."

"I don't expect to. Get on with it."

"You took the cocaine voluntarily."

He'd thought he was ready for all the possibilities, but he found that he wasn't. "Why the hell would I have done that?"

"I persuaded you; it was a pathetically small dose and I told you that I'd be entirely in control. He wasn't going to let you stay otherwise and you didn't want to leave me with him. You were curious anyway, after your experiences with morphine, though you wouldn't admit it. But mainly I kissed you into it. You are...were... remarkably susceptible that way."

Bastard. "So why were you taking it?"

"Come on, John. Cocaine. Moriarty had never touched it before. This was a round I could win easily. And the sex would be interesting."

"So did you win easily?"

Sherlock glanced at the gun in John's hand. "It doesn't appear so at the moment, no."

"OK. We all had our shots. What then?"

A quick, careful smile. "You liked it. It was barely enough to do more than heighten my senses. Jim was definitely high but his control is extraordinary. But you were flying, and quite tangibly grateful to both of us."

John winced. "I get the idea. Who tied me up?"

"It was a joint effort. You were extremely co-operative."

"And did we discuss condoms?"

"Not as such, no." Sherlock had the grace to look discomforted. "You were certainly aware of what was going on and raised no objection."

Of course he hadn't. He'd been sodding high. "Who might I have been objecting to, at this point?"

"Me, at first. But you weren't ready to stop when I did, so Jim got invited to take over."

"Then?" There was going to be a knife in this story somewhere.

"You went quiet. I thought you were just flagging; you'd come pretty hard and we'd taken our time. Cocaine highs don't last all that long; I assumed you were coming down. From the way you were rather languidly trying to fellate my fingers it seemed you were still happy enough. Then I closed my eyes for a second and you bit me."

He held up his left hand. Raw looking scabs ringed the first two fingers, just below the knuckles. John subtracted five days' healing and suppressed a wince.

"By the time I'd got free of you, he'd finished." He looked down at the still figure. "It was a diabolically effective move. Every time I looked at you I was going to know it was there. I lost my temper, which amused him, and I made some threats which he thought hilarious, and by the time I looked round to see why you'd stopped swearing you'd fallen asleep.

"That's when I realised he'd switched the drugs. Temazepam, he said. I couldn't rouse you and I wasn't prepared to let him win that comprehensively. A couple more cuts; you barely twitched and it would heal just as well."

His voice was carefully neutral. "As a solution it was definitely sub-optional."

"Just a bit." John didn't trust himself to say more, not right now. Moriarty was stirring, trying to speak. No, to laugh at them, his bloodied mouth grinning. John turned away from him, smashed a heel backwards. He didn't react to the scream, but Sherlock was staring down past him.

"You can't kick him to death, John. It's not how it works."

"It's not the way you two choose for it to work. Unfortunately you brought me into this and I have had enough of your stupid game."

He turned and dropped to one knee, his hand in Moriarty's hair, dragging the damaged face upwards.

"This man intends to have me murdered, Sherlock. Are you going to ask me for his life?"

Sherlock took one long look at Jim, then up to John's face. "No."

"Right." John let go, stood up, took a step backwards, straightened his arm and fired.

"Barricade the door," he said into the gunshot's echoes. Sherlock was already moving to push the table up against the library door as firing started from the other side. John pulled the phone out from his pocket, called the pre-dialled number.

"Greg. Sherlock and I are on the third floor of 12 Northumbrian Place. Moriarty is dead. There's a lot of men with guns trying to get to us. Tell Mycroft to send in his people and for God's sake make sure they know who they are meant to be shooting at. And next time I see you I'm going to punch you in the face."

He snapped the phone shut, went to help Sherlock with a bookcase. "I suggest you start working out how to defuse whatever he's left behind."

"Already onto it, of course. Give me that phone."

When the smoke had finally cleared and they had been escorted to the edge of the cordon, John had nearly got his chance to hit Lestrade. Sherlock had stepped into the way. "No police statements," he'd announced. "Not now, not ever. Get my brother to make it disappear. John and I are done with it. We're going home." And they had.

The milk had gone off during their respective captivities. John could hear talking as he came back up the stairs from getting more. He froze for a second, recognising the voice, then took the rest of the steps at a run.

"Get out!"

Mycroft turned towards him, umbrella between his knees.

"Doctor Watson. You may be interested to know that Anthea is still in hospital."

"I hope she has a speedy recovery. Now get out of my house."

"We have not finished our discussion." Mycroft looked across to Sherlock for support.

"It appears that we have. John doesn't want you here, so you're leaving." Sherlock scooped up the nearly full cup of black tea, walked through to tip it down the sink. Called back, "John will throw you out if you don't leave voluntarily, Mycroft. I imagine it will be both undignified and uncomfortable. I will make a point of watching."

John followed the stiff back down the stairs. Mycroft turned at the threshold. "After the savagery you have displayed, you can be sure that your control over my brother will not be tolerated."

Control? "You screwed up, Mycroft. No-one gives a fuck about your opinion. Don't come back." He slammed the door, headed back up the stairs.

"Thanks."

"For what?" Sherlock was leafing through the unopened mail.

"For backing me up."

Sherlock looked up, put the post down.

"Supporting you against Mycroft is hardly sufficient. I am not sure yet what if anything will be."

"What does that mean?" John put the kettle on, came back to sit down in the armchair "Guilt? Gratitude? Doesn't seem quite like you, somehow."

"Neither." Sherlock was curled on the couch, long legs tucked round him. "When I thought you'd charged into there to rescue me I was quite annoyed at your stupidity. Jim wasn't going to kill me; I'd have walked out of there eventually but you had to be unnecessarily heroic and get yourself captured or shot."

He pulled his knees up tighter. "When I found out why you'd actually done it..." His eyes were intense. "You killed Moriarty, John, because he seriously pissed you off. I'm still waiting to find out what you plan to do about me."

Oh.

"I shot Moriarty because he was a psychotic killer and someone needed to do it. But yes, you both treated me like a piece of property to squabble over. He mutilated me, and so did you. He's dead and I don't know what to do about you, Sherlock. Maybe breaking a couple of your ribs would help but somehow I doubt it. Maybe I ought to just leave."

"Obviously I won't make the same mistake twice." Sherlock was definite.

"MIstake? That's how you see it?"

"It was a mistake. I could have done what you did at any time in the last few days. I didn't and you did. I let him set the context for my choices."

He flashed a tired smile. "Jim and I; we are-were- inclined to treat people like property.The interesting ones, at least. The rest are just cases."

"That's not a mistake, Sherlock. It's a character defect. Why should I think it's going to change?"

"Because you will leave otherwise." Eyes met his. "I want to tell you that you can't leave. That I won't permit it. But I learn. I'm not Jim Moriarty. So I'm asking you to stay. You can leave tomorrow, next week, next year, if you want to. But stay now."

"Stay for what? To run after you on cases, do your laundry, drink tea and swap clever remarks, all the time with your bloody brand carved on my shoulder? I don't think I can do that any more."

Sherlock had pulled himself tight into a bundle on the sofa. "What did Mycroft say to you when he left?"

"How do you know he said anything?"

"From the look you gave me when you came back up. What did he say?"

"He said that he wouldn't let me control you. God knows why he thought I might have a hope of doing that."

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised, then thoughtful. "That's possible. It would provide you with some guarantee of my behaviour."

John's heart skipped a beat. "Why the hell would you even think of agreeing to anything like that? And don't tell me it's just to keep me around, because that isn't even close to enough."

"I'd probably like it." Sherlock flashed a smile. "Provided that you weren't being stupid, and I could always tell you when you were doing that. You're not so quiet when you take charge. It's interesting."

"Your crazily weird libido has already got you in far too much trouble already, Sherlock. I am not being responsible for you. Absolutely not. That's not what these scars mean. I don't want you on a short lead. I don't want you at all. You can damn well learn to be a decent human being and make your own bloody decisions."

Somehow the ball that was Sherlock on the couch managed to contract even tighter. John had never seen him actually miserable. He wasn't sure how it made him feel. "I'm not going to go anywhere tonight. I haven't anywhere to go. Just leave it, for now." And he headed off for a very long shower.

 

It was a week later. Sherlock was doing something with a microscope and notebook. John was sorting out the bills and wondering if "being kidnapped by the megalomaniac brother of my insane flatmate" would be considered extenuating circumstances for missing a credit card payment and, with rather more anxiety, whether Lestrade's invitation to dinner tomorrow would likely lead to a conviction for assault on a police officer or whether it would just be awkward.

He became aware that Sherlock had stopped scribbling and was looking at him.

"What?"

"You sighed. Twice."

"Not bloody surprising. You've been tapping that damn pencil on the desk for at least half an hour."

"You haven't sighed since you killed Jim."

"One day," John pointed out, "you're going to say that in front of the wrong person and you'll be doing your own cooking and cleaning for the next ten to fifteen years. What does it matter?"

"Your mental states are pretty unsophisticated, John. You can't think I'm exasperating and wicked at the same time."

"Why not? Your late unlamented buddy was both."

"No," Sherlock was looking pleased with himself. "Jim was irritating. Exasperation is a more domestic emotion."

"So you think I've forgiven you because you're annoying me? God, you're optimistic."

"I'm right. How's the shoulder? You're clearly sleeping better which suggests that you're able to lie on your back again."

"It's better, yes. Why?"

"You should be up for a bit of strenuous exercise, then."

John shook his head, unbelieving. "Just like that? Now?"

"Now is good. You're not busy. Nor am I."

It wasn't like he hadn't been thinking about it. He'd told himself maybe months, if he felt he could trust again, if they were both still interested by then. Maybe longer. Not a week.

He didn't trust Sherlock. Not yet. Not at all. Sherlock wanted what Sherlock wanted, not what might be good for John. Sherlock had wanted Jim Moriarty, and he'd completely failed to protect John from the worst of the man's viciousness.

Of course, in the end John had looked out for himself. Turned out he was quite good at that. His eyes flickered over the lean frame. Now, six months, six years- Sherlock might claim to learn but he wouldn't change. John would have to keep looking out for himself.

He could do that. He took a breath.

"No more of this catalyst crap. You want to screw criminal masterminds; you're on your own. Absolutely no drugs. No trying to kiss me into bad decisions. And there's nothing on my shoulder except a handful of fading knife scars. Understood?"

"Entirely." Sherlock flashed a smile. "Now?"

John sighed again, earning a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. "This had better be good. Though it can hardly be worse than last time. Okay, I suppose. Now."

Kissing Sherlock no longer felt like a miracle. Feeling his arousal hard against John's thigh wasn't some privilege beyond imagining, but only Sherlock's lust, welcome, no doubt of that, but something to take pleasure in, not to be pathetically grateful for.

Sherlock felt it, lifting his mouth from John's to grumble,"You're harder to impress, now."

"Good," He was done with making do with crumbs. The rival he wasn't ever going to outshine he'd shot dead instead and if John was still too quiet for Sherlock then he'd got a good book to go back to reading instead.

"Not," Sherlock murmured, amused, a surprisingly heavy weight on top of him, "quiet at all."

"Damn right." His hands pulled at clothing. "Shift a bit- yes. There. Keep still." His fingers curled, tugged gently, and Sherlock moved with them, was pushing fast against his hand. "I said... oh, never mind. You're not going to do what you're told, are you?"

"You had your chance. I offered." Sherlock was ripping John's shirt open with one hand, propped up on an elbow above him.

"That wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Rather like you. Slow down, for God's sake."

"Last time was slow. This time fast is good." A hand in John's flies had him tightening his own grip. He didn't remember last time. If that was even what Sherlock had meant.

"Last time with me or last time?"

"Same thing." Sherlock snorted at John's sceptical expression. "Obviously I held out on him. I needed a negotiating position."

"Your moral sense is truly awesome, Sherlock." He had to ask. "Are you sorry that he's dead?"

"Someone was likely to get killed. Better him than you. Or, obviously, me." Sherlock dipped his head to pull on a nipple and John squirmed. That was hardly the emphatic denial he'd been hoping for but at least he believed it.

"Stop thinking, John!" Sherlock's tongue slid down his stomach, on downwards and John did what he was told, for a few minutes at least. Sherlock had been serious about fast; the wet warmth around John's cock was replaced by shockingly cold air before he was halfway through orgasm and he was rolled over by one hip, still twitching.

"Manners, Sherlock! Ask first!"

A loud sigh, then an exasperated "Please?"

He rolled over, sat up. "No." Grinned at Sherlock's expression. "Ask me again tomorrow." He dropped the smile." "You had the appalling arrogance to think that scarring SH into my body meant something. My body, Sherlock. Mine. Not any sort of possession of yours. I'm only going to do this once because I'm not a total bastard, but you will remember."

He started to pull his clothing together, gave the man half a minute or so before he looked at him. Sherlock was sitting up on the bed, naked, watching him.

"Well?"

"Definitely exasperated, then." Sherlock's smile came as something of a relief. "Remind me never to actually irritate you. We'll get a taxi over to Lestrade's. He can give his apology dinner a night early; I'm in the mood for seeing someone else discomforted tonight. And I now have plans for tomorrow evening, Dr John Watson permitting."

"All sounds good to me. Ten minutes for a shower." God, he felt better. Warm and post-orgasmic, and Jim was dead and he and Sherlock might actually come to some kind of mutual arrangement that worked. And he was about to see Greg Lestrade get all flustered and apologetic.

When he came out of the shower, however, with a towel wrapped around his waist, Lestrade was in the sitting room, with papers spread across the desk. Both men glanced briefly at him.

"Case?"

"Case." Sherlock confirmed. "It's a locked room murder, but without the room. There's a body, though. Coming?"

"Grab my clothes. Don't go without me."

"I wouldn't think of it. I'm not a total bastard." Sherlock's voice was entirely solemn. Lestrade was puzzling between them, clearly not sure if the barb was aimed at him. "Look, John. I'm really sorry about what happened..."

"Doesn't matter." John decided, running up the stairs for his clothes, that it really didn't. Jim was dead and the rest was all history, except for Sherlock, who it appeared was going to be very much the future. And a mysterious dead body out there, which was now. Could be a hell of a lot worse. It would do.

THE END


End file.
